The Case Of The Left-handed Liar
by GiraffePanda2
Summary: Enola is being hunted by the world's best detective, her brother, Sherlock Holmes. After successfully running from home, she must dart and dodge both of her brothers while trying to solve the mystery of a kidnapped heiress in London. All the while trying to keep up communications with her runaway Mum via newspaper publishings. (Nancy Springer Books/BBC universe)
1. Chapter the First

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes.**

**This is the sequel. Let the games begin. **

**WARNING: If you have not read the first story in this series: "Enola Holmes", I highly suggest you go do so. It will be confusing if you did not.**

* * *

**LONDON**

**NOVEMBER, I GUESS, THE TIMELINE CAN BE A LITTLE WONKY AT TIMES.**

"You know as well as I, that we would not be in this _deplorable _situation," The younger of the two men informed the older man, "If you had not tried to bully her into boarding school." He is slouched in his chair, every inch of his body emitting his displeasure at having the other man near him.

"Oh please, brother, what other way would you have me act? Must I always play the villain? You've even influenced our sister." The older man retorted. He was tall, although not as tall as his younger brother, and was stouter. He was standing in the disorganized flat, an umbrella twirling at his fingertips.

"Our sister." Murmured the great detective, who was sitting down in his favorite chair. "Our sister who managed to elude both of us, and is now doing who knows what to survive. She is alone in this city, and we both know how dangerous this place can be."

"Why Sherlock," His brother stated, "Is that concern I detect? Such behavior is not like you. I thought, personally, you would be jumping at the chance for another, as you put it, _case_."

"Which one, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "The case of our missing mother, who has tricked you into setting up our sister for escape, or the case of Enola Holmes, a missing teenager who is lost in London?" He jumped up to stand, and began to pace very quickly.

"Our mother," Mycroft began, "A woman who had a very small hand in Enola's upbringing. While our Mummy spent hours painting posies, Enola was running wild, it was our Mummy who embezzled funds which should have gone to educating our sister. Instead, she was the one who abandoned the girl."

"On her fifteenth birthday." Muttered the pacing man.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Birthday or any other day, it does not matter. Mother deserted Enola, therefore it falls to me, the eldest to look after-"

"And you impose your will upon her?" Sherlock laughed, hard and cold. "We've seen how Enola acts. She did set up a scheme for you and me. She is quick-thinking, although her mind is not even close it ours. She is a rebel, Mycroft. I'm afraid a more gentle hand would have to be taken, if one wished to have her act-"

"The only rational way to break in a horse is with discipline, Sherlock." Mycroft cut in harshly. "You of all people should see the logic in that."

After a moment or two, Sherlock said softly. "Logic is not everything, it seems."

Mycroft snorted, "Certainly the first I've ever heard you say that! If you are so fond of her, then you can try and find her in your own way. But why is this different from any other case?"

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "You're hiding something." He stated.

Mycroft remained still, not showing any emotion. "She is our sister, albeit so much younger that I could count the times you've met her on one hand."

"...She reminds me of myself at her age. Tall and gawky, not fitting in-"

Mycroft interrupted him, "Preposterous! Nevertheless, the most important thing is this: who do you propose we find her?"

Sherlock remained silent. "Why do we find her? Why not simply leave her be? How much harm-"

"You know as well as I do that there's plenty harm that could come to her. She is fragile, if you will. She cannot handle herself."

"She certainly handled herself when she jumped out a window."

Mycroft was losing his patience. "Do not think I didn't realize that you avoided the question. What are you going to do, Sherlock? I like to think that I know you well enough that you're not going to just leave this. What do you usually say? The game is on?"

The great detective remained quiet except for one small uttering. "I have a plan."

His older brother sighed. "Must you have your cloak of mystery, Sherlock?"

"There is no need in telling you, Mycroft, if I find myself in need of your assistance, however unlikely that might be, do remember that I will call you." She picked up his violin and sat back down in his chair.

Mycroft, however, did not leave. He sat down in the opposite chair, the umbrella still by his side. "There is another matter, one that might suit your interests."

They were both interrupted by the entrance of one John Watson.

"John." Sherlock greeted solemnly. He plucked a string on his violin.

A little bit breathless, John said concerned, "I saw it on the telly, are you okay?"

"Me? What? Oh yes, fine. Gas leak apparently." He glanced around the flat. The windows were blown out and there were small debris littering the floor. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. "I can't."

"Can't?"

"Stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

"Put you're able to take on the case of finding her?" Mycroft inquired, scowling. "Never mind any of your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?"

"Fine. Perhaps you can get through to him John."

"What?" John asked, a little surprised and out of it.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." Mycroft stated.

Sherlock, plucking on another string, added, "It runs in the family. Mycroft, if you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Those words had double-meaning. He was also asking why Mycroft couldn't just find Enola by himself.

Mycroft answered both questions, "No, no, no, no, I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so…" He trailed off when the other two men looked at him. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires… legwork."

Sherlock said suddenly after a moment, "How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock it was the sofa."

"Oh yes, of course."

"How-never mind." John sat down on the couch.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… _pals_." Mycroft said. "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

John replied perfectly, "I'm never bored."

Mycroft smiled, "Good, that's good isn't it?" He stood up, and handed a file to Sherlock, but his brother did not take it. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends," Mycroft instead handed it to John, "Civil servant, found dead on the tracks of Batter sea station this morning with his head bashed in."

John inquired, "Jumped in front of a train?"

"Seems like it."

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." John stated.

Mycroft went on to explain the case with a few interrupted from John and he finished with this to Sherlock, "You've got find those plans Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock smirked and retorted, "We both know what happened the last time you tried ordering a Holmes to do something Mycroft."

Mycroft scowled and turned around to bid John a farewell. After that, he left, walking down the stairs and out of 221b Baker Street.

John turned to Sherlock, "Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh… Nice… Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere." The doctor declared. Before anything else could be said, Sherlock got a call.

"Of course, how could I refuse?" He told the man over the phone. Soon he and John were out the door and in a cab, heading to the police station.

"You mentioned another case." John stated, as they waited for a light to turn green.

"Hmm?"

"You mentioned another case, back at the flat. Mycroft said something about finding some woman, who is she?"

Sherlock was silent for several minutes before answering. "Her name is Enola."

"Alright, well, is there a last name too?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. When Sherlock didn't answer he rolled his eyes. "Fine. Was she kidnapped or something? And how come you were complaining about being bored but you had a case already? And why didn't I know about this one?"

Sherlock scowled. "This particular case requires… time. Patience."

"Something you have little of." John muttered.

The detective continued, "As well, for right now, I have no clues." He revealed, rather reluctantly.

John let out a small chuckle. "No clues?" he repeated. "You, Sherlock Holmes, have no clues?"

Needless to say that Sherlock Holmes was not amused.

* * *

_**-CHAPTER THE FIRST-**_

I was rather shocked.

I looked at Jody. "Would you kindly say that again?" I inquired, as if he didn't say it loudly enough the first time. It couldn't be right. He had to be mistaken.

Jody, who is a handyman (although boy is more accurate) and a part-time employee who helps around the residence and Dr. Ragostin's office, repeated for me "A Dr. J-John Watson for you, ma'am."

Dr. John Watson. John of course is such a common name but Watson? My brother has associated himself with a Dr. John Watson. I know of this, because of my brother's website and because of Dr. Watson's blog. Indeed, when I found out about this, I hurried to read as much as I could. I had to know if there was anything about me, or Mum.

Unfortunately, there was none. Or perhaps luck was in my favor. That could mean that there are no clues regarding 'my case'. Unless Sherlock has decided not tell Dr. Watson.

"Alright." I said reluctantly, "Have you've informed him of Dr. Ragostin's absence?"

"Yes ma'am."

I set my shoulders straight, "Send him in then, Jody."

"Yes ma'am." Jody, a nickname for Jodpher, was not a very bright boy, but his mother lived in the residence. She was my first boarder. Jody lives with her and when I had mentioned something about needing a helper now and then, Jody jumped at the chance. Luckily, he seemed almost in awe of me, and that helped. Especially since he was only a year or two younger then me.

Once Jody left to bring the good doctor in, I let my knees shake. My whole body had goose-bumps and I felt my hands shake. All in the fear of my brother. It says so much about the Holmes family.

Taking a deep breath, I pictured my mother's face in my mind along with her voice_._

_You'll do very well on your own, Enola._

That did the trick, and as I was opening my eyes, a Dr. John Watson entered the room.

"Hello," I greeted him pleasantly. "Please, do take a seat by the fire. Dreadfully cold outside, correct?"

The doctor nodded and added, "Yes, it seems like you could skate across the Thames."

I too nodded. Giving him a smile, I settled my skirt around my legs and said, "Well, now you know that Dr. Ragostin is busy, sadly, but I am fully capable of listening and taking notes."

Dr. Watson hesitated.

"Please," I began, "Don't fret. Dr. Ragostin will receive my notes." I held up the pen and pad of paper I had. If my instincts were right, he had come here to check out competition or something for Sherlock.

I knew that 221b Baker Street had experienced an explosion, but Ivy Meshle wouldn't know that. Ivy Meshle would not worry if her brother was okay or not. Ivy Meshle was not Enola Holmes.

I had come up with the name Ivy Meshle. Ivy, for fidelity; then you take the word Holmes, split up the syllables (HOL-MES), reverse each syllable, (MES-HOL) and then spell it the way it sounds (MESHLE). Simple.

Dr. Watson ahem-ed, getting my attention and said, "Uh, I, well, I run a blog."

"Oh!" I chimed, grinning. "You must be _the_ Dr. John Watson. You work with Sherlock Holmes, correct?" While Ivy Meshle would not have heard about the explosion on Baker Street, she would, being the dutiful assistant/secretary to a Scientific Perditorian, know about any other 'detectives'.

"Uh, yes, he doesn't know I'm here, you see." John added.

My nerves went out the window. Sherlock didn't suspect a thing. I told him dully, "Continue."

"I was, well, getting, concerned in a way. You see, I was hoping that Dr. Ragostin would help find someone."

_And hello nerves._

Dr. Watson continued, "Sherlock Holmes is an odd man, I won't lie about that, and while he is usually somewhat cold, he seems to be more so than usual lately."

I wrote this down, keeping notes.

"So I went to a mutual, uh, friend, of ours, Detective Lestrade at Scotland Yard, and asked him if he knew anything. He replied, telling me that Sherlock is looking for a girl."

"Well aren't most men?" I joked. I never clapped a hand over my mouth, that hadn't meant to come out. Luckily, it wasn't said with the tone I had been using in my head. It came off as a lame joke.

Dr. Watson chuckled quietly before continuing, "Yes, well, this girl is related to him. She's, uh, his sister."

_I'm dead._

"Ah." I said quietly. "What is her name? What does she look like?"

"Enola Holmes. And I'm told that she's tall and thin, with a long face and a-" He paused for a moment. "A pronounced, um, chin and nose. She's apparently quite, bony and very-um-"

I held a hand to pause the slight stuttering man. "No need to be polite here, Dr. She has a large chin and nose, and a not very feminine build?" I knew that I looked a lot Sherlock and so I tried putting in a pair of rubber devices inside my mouth, one in each cheek. These devices, however, where actually intended for filling out another, unmentionable part of the body. But they were helpful it making my bone-structure less sharp and more full.

The doctor continued, "She's very tomboyish too."

"Is there a picture that Dr. Ragostin may use?" I asked, trying to keep in laughter.

"No, she has appeared to stay away from any photos."

"Really?" I inquired, sounding shocked, "Not one little photo? Oh well, is that all?" I knew that missing all of the school picture days would be a good thing.

Dr. Watson shook his head. "There's one more thing. Her mother is missing as well."

_You'll do very well on your own, Enola._

"Oh?" I said once again, keeping my voice light. "How terrible! What is her name? What does she look like?"

Once he supplied me with Eudoria Vernet Holmes's name and age and a few other facts about my mother and I; I informed him. "Thank you for your time, but I'm afraid that Dr. Ragostin will probably not take this case."

Dr. Watson looked confused. "Excuse me?"

I put away the notes and pen and then gave him a steely gaze. "Do not think that I don't see a spy when one is right underneath my nose!" I exclaimed. I stood up suddenly, as did the doctor. I was disheartened that I had to act in such a rude way to the kind man, but I needed to have a reason why I-Dr. Ragostin- could not take this case. "Sherlock Holmes, the World's Only Consulting Detective! Not being able to look for his own mother and sister? I doubt they even exist!"

He looked flabbergasted. "What?" He said, outraged. "O-Of course they do!"

I raised an eyebrow.

"Listen," He tried taking another approach. "I've seen Sherlock, he is sincerely acting odd! We had a case, a walk-in a few days ago, a Mr. and Mrs. Alistair, their daughter went missing and he had the strangest look on his face! Then before they even finished, he kicked them out, turned down their case."

Ah, it seems while trying to rid of one case, I stumbled upon another. "Besides, why should Dr. Ragostin even take this case? Another detective helping another detective? Sounds like a lie too good to be true. I suspect that Sherlock Holmes has sent you here to 'stake out' the rising competition." I didn't let Dr. Watson get in another word. "While I am honored that Holmes thinks so highly of my boss," I let my sass slip out, "I'm afraid that the Scientific Perditorian might not have the time for this case."

Dr. Watson looked at a loss for words before saying a final goodbye. "I'd like to speak to Dr. Ragostin personally, still."

"Fine. I suppose that if he does take it up, I'll be able to find you at 221b Baker Street?"

He cocked his head to the side.

I told him, "The doctor and I are both readers of your blog, and Holmes's website."

Then, Dr. John Watson finally took his leave.

Once he left, I sat back down, suddenly exhausted. Again, the cold came back to me, as it was forgotten by my nerves. I tucked back a piece of red-gold hair. I wore a wig when I was Ms. Ivy Meshle.

I felt bad on what I had done, treating him so rudely, but looking back at it, I was grateful.

I pulled out the laptop that was hidden in a drawer of the desk I was behind. I typed into the search engine: Alistair-missing daughter.

As several small articles popped up I felt a smile come on me. It looks like Dr. Ragostin had a case after all.

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**THE END**

**Wow, that was a long chapter. I'm thinking about the timeline a lot… Right now, it's somewhere in the third episode and between the second season. I felt that Dr. Watson's visit was a little forced, sadly, but that was very canon, and I couldn't just cut it out.**

**What did you think? If you're just tuning in, I highly suggest reading ENOLA HOLMES, the first book in this series. It's on my page. I'm afraid that you won't get very much without that. It sets everything up.**

**And for people who have followed me through that story, thank you! This is it! Let's begin!**

**Please review! And with that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	2. Chapter the Second

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes!**

**Hello there readers, let's start, shall we?**

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**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

_**-CHAPTER THE SECOND-**_

_Sherlock Holmes._

My brother. As much as I feared him, I also worshiped him. He is my biggest weakness.

A shiver went down my spine. I could not stop worrying over Dr. Watson's visit. Why would he come see me? I know that it couldn't possibly be because of concern for Sherlock-no one likes Sherlock.

Well, except for me, but in all honestly it's mostly respect/admiration. Is it possible my brother has found a friend?

I scoffed at the idea.

On the other, I was horrified at the other option, that Sherlock Holmes suspected me, Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin, either as Enola Holmes, or as just perhaps competition. Would Sherlock truly send someone to see the Scientific Perditorian just because he needed to know if 'he' would be a 'threat'?

I felt as though I was overthinking this. Wielding a magic wand would make more sense than my family!

For a brief moment, although it was really longer than a moment, I wished to talk with Mum. Just to hear her voice would be enough for me. I had sent her another message, printing it out in all of the regular periodicals: _Pall Mall Gazette, Modern Womanhood,_ ect. It follows as such:

_My Chrysanthemum: The fourth letter of true love, the fourth letter of purity, the first letter of thoughts, the fourth letter of innocence, the first letter of fidelity, the third or fourth letter of departure, and the first letter of the same. Correct? Your Ivy._

It was unspoken between us, but we referred to each other as Chrysanthemum for Mum, and Ivy for me. I had sent her a metaphorical bouquet, with my words. For, in _The Meanings of Flowers_, true love stood for forget-me-not, purity stood for the lily, and so on, and so on. It went on to include the pansy, daisy, and sweet pea.

This all spelled _GYPSIES_.

After a week of waiting, biting my nails, I received a message in similar fashion. Mum said, "Close. Where are you?"

Close? My mind had been stumped for the longest time, until I finally came to the conclusion that close meant either I was close in my guess, or she was close to Gypsies. Either way, it was just nice to be in communications with her. Despite the circumstances.

I replied likewise, "London."

That was it. No more communications between us. While I was drawn to my mother, not all of my feelings were kind. I was also angry at her for leaving, what child wouldn't? I hesitated in dropping everything and searching for her. Instead, I paced myself, trying hard not to immediately rush into contacting her. No doubt back-and-forth ciphers in the newspapers would draw unwanted attention.

But with the news of Sherlock, I felt… small. I needed to contact Mum urgently. Just to get some advice on how to handle this.

~!~

I waited until I got home, a good distance away from the office. I could have boarded up in the residence, but for caution's sake, I did not. Instead I lived in a humble home right by the East End. I was the only lodger to a wonderful old lady named Mrs. Tupper. She was mostly deaf, the only way to talk to her is to yell very loudly into an earpiece. I rarely saw anyone else when I was there.

Once I arrived back at my flat, I removed my rubber inserts, scraped off my make-up and took of my wig. I slipped into more comfortable clothing, removing the dreadful skirt that Ivy Meshle loved, and sat down at my desk.

The message must be different than the others. Sherlock knew I had money, Mycroft as well. This worried me to no end-what if he knew more-could he possibly suspect the coded words in the periodicals were between Mum and I? I there composed the following cipher:

**DOGWOOD FOUR IRIS TWICE THREE VIOLET AND **

**APPLE BLOSSOM HOW MANY?**

I didn't mention Ivy, because I needed to be cautious, but I knew (hoped) Mum would recognize that this was from me. I broke the words into groups of three.

**DOG WOO DFO URI RIS TWI CET HRE EVI OLE TAN **

**DAP PLE BLO SSO MHO WMA NY?**

Hopefully Mum would understand how the code had changed. Irises have three large petals on top and three on bottom, a dogwood flower has four petals and a violet and apple blossom both have five. Once I broke up the message, I reversed it. I noticed, however, that the question mark would be obvious, and replaced it with a 'null', otherwise known as an X.

**NYX WMA MHO SSO BLO PLE DAP TAN OLE EVI HRE**

**CET TWI RIS URI DFO WOO DOG**

All that work was to make just make sure Mum had the number five in her head. Because, you see, one can split the alphabet into five parts. Z is used so little that it can be squished together with Y.

**ABCDE**

**FGHIJ**

**KLMNO**

**PQRST**

**UVWXYZ**

I wrote the real message now. LONDON BRIDE FALLING DOWN URGENT MUST TALK. I coded like this: L is in the third group, second letter. Therefore it is written as 32. O is in the third row, and is the fifth letter: 35. You do this until you have the whole message enciphered.

**323534143534 124324142215 2444**

**21113232243432 14355334 514322153445**

**33514445 45113231**

My final draft was this:

**NYX WMA MHO SSO BLO PLE DAP TAN OLE EVI HRE CET TWI RIS URI DFO WOO DOG 323534143534 124324142215 2444 21113232243432 14355334 14322153445 33514445 45113231**

Mother wouldn't be able to resist such a cipher. Unfortunately, neither would my brother, Sherlock. I could only hope that he wouldn't be able to solve, or that he might not see it. He could be on a case.

After copying the cipher several times, making sure I triple-checked it, i sealed them in an envelope. I would mail them tomorrow.

And as for my other case, the Alistair daughter, it would have to wait as well.

I detested waiting.

I glanced at my wardrobe before getting up and stretching. I opened the doors and smiled. While I had to wait, that did not mean I had to be idle. I dressed myself-but not as Ivy Meshle, or a widow or business woman-this time, I would be clothed differently.

I threw on warm leggings and a long sleeved black shirt. I put on a heavy black skirt, with pockets sewn on and then I placed the cloak I had painstakingly made myself. It was simple, but efficient. I had hoped it would pass as a nun's habit of some sorts. I supplied myself with blankets, clothes, food and, and also armed myself.

In the cloak, at the side, I hid a sheathed dagger. It was long and slender. I had never used it, but I didn't want to risk anything. I put on a thick scarf as the final touch. Before I escaped down the stairs, after making sure that I heard Mrs. Tupper head to bed, I covered my face with the thick black veil that was attached to the hood of my clothes.

This was the apparel of my nightlife.

* * *

**THE END!**

**Hoped you liked it! Tell me your thoughts!**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	3. Chapter the Third

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes. I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LEFT-HANDED LAIR**

_-CHAPTER THE THIRD-_

I tip-toed softly down the stairs. While Mrs. Tupper was deaf, I still took no chances as I crept down the stairs. Right as I reached the final step, I tripped, falling against the wall. I squeaked as I came close to hitting the floor. Once I regained my compasure, and made sure that Mrs. Tupper did not awake, I continued on. I unlocked the front door and closed it softly.

After glanced to make sure that no one noticed me-even if they did, what would they do?-I walked quickly and with purpose. Soon, I was where I was most familiar.

Buildings in desperate need of a new paint job, trash fluttering around in the street, half of the lights in the lampposts were out. I heard noise coming from the pubs that were open. Loud shouts, laughs and crashes were very audible as I stole away into an alley.

Admong the noise, I had heard the sound I was searching for. Crying.

A child, younger than me, wearing worn clothing, although seemingly dressed warmly, was huddled near a trashcan. Soft sniffles and sobs could be heard. The child looked up and gasped. "Sister!" She cried out. She glanced around her, as if worried she would be overheard.

I swooped down, my cloak looking like wings, on the child and knelt near. I began to unload supplies into the child's eager arms. The first two weeks I tried this, every single child, and most of the adults, scorned me and ran away. I simply left what I could leave where they might find it and then move on.

Once the child's tears were dried, I turned away. "God bless you!" The child called out to my figure, as I disappeared.

A small smile lit my face, but soon my usual grimness returned. The child was young, probably had been waiting for their father to come out of the pub, or something. I clenched my fists in anger for a moment before taking a deep breath. It would do no one any good if I simply started a rampage on alcohol. Or poor child care.

I almost snorted at the thought._ Me_, leading a protest against bad parenting. The whole thing seemed so ironic to me that it nearly made me have a laughing fit. I had to stop and lean against a wall in order to catch my breath. I heard the loud crashed coming from a bar across the street. Men laughing loudly and the sound of glass clinking filled my ears. I lost myself in the sounds for a moment.

Perhaps that was my mistake.

I suddenly shivered.

_From fear or from cold_? Floated into my mind suddenly.

It was the former, because I sensed a presence behind me and tried to turn around-_**too late.**_

Something wrapped itself around my neck and tightened. I threw up my hands, clawing at it. I completely and utterly forgot about my dagger and simply grasped at whatever thing-it was strong and constricting, almost ropelike but more slender-that was around my neck.

It tightened.

I felt the world began to slip away, despite my protests.

My vision darkened.

My breathing cut off.

My mouth was opened in a silent scream and my body thrashing in pain.

I knew I was going to die.

But there was another loud crash, more yelling, and right before I felt my body give up and fall limp, I felt the constricting, tortorous vine slip away.

* * *

"She 'right?"

"'d do a thing like that, eh?"

"... Ister of the Streets, bloody terrible thing ta do."

The voices were the first things I heard. Then, over time, I heard other small noises, distance background sounds. The voices, low and slurred, still talked. I tried moving, but felt no desire in my entire body to do so. My neck felt like it had been stepped on repeatedly.

Just as I felt a hand grab my veil to pull it off, I lurched forward, causing the drunken men around me to stumble backwards, giving off a curse or two.

Each breath felt like a knife in the chest; I could not breath deep. Each gasp I took was almost torture. As my vision slowly became clear, I realized that I was surrendered by several men, who had been drinking very recently. They must have heard the struggle I was putting up and came outside, causing my attacker to flee.

"'ey! You 'right?" One of the drunken men reached for me, but I shoved his hand away, while they may have been my saviors, I did not want to be in their company much longer. I staggered to a standing position and hurried away, tripping and stumbling.

My feet seemed to have more sense than my muddled mind, for they carried right back to my flat. I opened the door, not carrying if I made a sound and locked it behind me. I ran up the stairs, panting and wincing as the pain in my neck grew and grew.

Finally, I collapsed onto my bed, kicking the door shut behind me. When I shut my eyes because of the pain, the sudden darkness was too much, and I scrambled for the lights. I flipped every switch I could, and even lit the fireplace. My body felt numb and cold, except for my neck, where the pain was still pounding to my head.

Gingerly, I crawled into the front of the fireplace and slowly felt around my neck. I felt something foreign brush my fingertips and let out a shriek. It was still around my neck and I immediately threw it off, towards the fire. It bounced off the bricks and landed at my feet. I kicked it away, scrambling back.

As if brought in by a breeze, I heard my mother's voice say comfortingly,_ "You'll do very well on your own, Enola."_

I shook my head fervently. Here I was, huddled in the corner like a child. It hit me that I was fifteen, and that this had been the second attempt on my life.

Slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, I crawled nearer to the offensive snake that had tortured my neck. Focusing on it, a sudden and nausating realization hit me. The string that was planned to kill me, was handmade. It was a-

My stomach dropped.

A child's scarf was in front of me. Someone had used an old _children's_ scarf to try and kill me.

For a brief moment, I didn't know whether to feel disgusted that someone used a child's article or flattered that someone actually noticed me. I pinched my skin, punishing myself for that last thought. Disgusted. I should feel disgusted.

I picked up the tattered child's clothing item and carefully shoved it away in my nightstand's drawer. I was beyond tired from the night's events, and wanted nothing more than just to fall into bed.

But, I preceded to take off my 'Sister' garb and clean myself up a small bit. I fell back into bed a short while after that. However, my thoughts were plagued. Someone else had tried to kill me.

Me, meaning the Sister of the Streets. I was a mute, I could not speak. I only helped people, never endangering them of any kind. So why would someone kill her? And using a garrote of all things? A knife, or a gun would work much better.

These thoughts, and much more morbid ones cluttered around in my skull until finally, I was coaxed into a somewhat peaceful sleep.

* * *

**THE END OF CHAPTER THREE**

**That's it! Thanks for reading, now on to the guest reviews!**

**Guests (Both of you): Aw, thank you for reviewing!**

**Lily (Guest): While I am flattered that you continue to review, I would appreciate if you would not continousally just ask me when I am updating. While it is true, I should update sooner, your comments actually discourage me. But don't take this the wrong way. I am beyond flattered that you took the time to review, but honestly, just telling me "Update already cmon" and "When are you going to write again im getting tired of waiting" isn't really helpful or relevant at all. I encountered something of this sorts on a wonderful story that I follow, where she would get a bunch of reviews simply saying "update soon please" or "waiting for next update".**

**I appreciate every single one of your reviews, know this please. But I would very much appreciate it even more that instead of telling just to, "Update sooner." or something similar, you would put "Good job." or whatever. Besides, it takes the same amount of time. Also, you may not know this, but having someone repeatedly tell you to update already is discouraging.**

**However, Lily, you have only done this twice. Still, I wanted to inform you as quickly and as cleanly as possible. While its cool that you care so much about my story that you really want to find out what happens next, I personally would rather hear if you liked it or not.**

**I debated for a long time whether or not to even include an answer to his, but I felt a little bit hurt by your reviews. I mean, I love getting reviews, but having someone tell me to 'Update already cmon' just makes me sad.**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**

**(also, if you're looking for some really, really, REALLY, good quality stories-much better than mine-I suggest Marshmellowtime's stories.)**


	4. Chapter the Fourth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes. I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

* * *

**THE CASE OF THE LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

_CHAPTER THE FOURTH_

I spent the next two days wrapped up in blankets and communicating to Mrs. Tupper using hand signals. She was quite worried about me and kept making her _special_ horrible oyster and chicken soup. Mrs. Tupper assumed that I was simply having a bit of a sore throat, as it was very common from the terrible cold these days.

My neck still pounded with pain, and now there were visible bruises lining up and down. Luckily, I happened to own quite a few turtleneck shirts; I wore them whenever Mrs. Tupper was bound to come up.

My little old and deaf landlady was mothering me more than my own mother ever did. While my Mum does mean much to me, she never babied me or showed me a lot of affection as a child. She was withdrawn in a way, almost an introvert. _But she did give me something_, I reminded myself grimly.

She gave me a chance for my freedom.

I leaned back against my pillows and pulled up the small laptop I had bought a few weeks after I bought Dr. Ragostin's offices. I now had a small income from the boarders that lived above his office.

I needed to act quickly on Cecilly Alistair, the missing heiress. Mr. and Mrs. Alistair had approached my brother with the case of finding their lost daughter. He had turned them down.

Perhaps it was time to give them some good news.

I clicked on the file I had complied on their case.

The Alistairs were a respectable family company, which grew from just a family company, into almost hundred employees. It was a shipping company of sorts, I recognized their logo from some trains I had seen before.

Cecilly Alistar was their eldest daughter and had gone missing Tuesday of last week. Her bedroom window was found open, the lock was forced open. A ladder was placed below the window.

Upon questioning by the police, several of Cecilly's friends had said that they had seen Cecilly talking with a 'handsome young boy' at school. They reported him not wearing a uniform from the school, and was dressed casually.

They checked messages on her phone and found out nothing, there were no mysterious texts or calls going or coming from the phone. However, when they searched the desk, they found letters. A small part of me filled with pride that a young girl figured out a way to get around her parents reading her messages on her phone and computer.

Sadly, Cecilly did not seem to think that they would ever search her desk, and they found all of the letters. There was nothing on what the letters said though, just that there were bundles of them.

I must get my hands on those letters. A corner of my mind began to plan on how to approach the Alistairs, while I continued to refresh my memory of the case.

Cecilly never mentioned a last name, only "Alexander". Still, with only that to go on, the police found him, a store-keeper's son, who was well above Cecilly's age of 16 by 5 years. When questioned, he immediately denied having anything to do with the missing daughter-and the police could not find any evidence indicating that she was with him.

Oddly enough, the only thing that connected them were the small sighting of by the friends, and the letters. There were no photos, no scheduled dates, no other sightings.

Alexander, Alexander Finch, is still being investigated and watched by the police.

I sighed, it did not escape my attention the irony of me trying to find a missing daughter.

No matter how little I was truly a daughter.

There had been no reply yet from Mother, I had checked each day since I sent the message. Still, I wanted-

I scolded myself harshly. What good would I do in this situation? I was acting like a child!

"_You'll do very well on your own, Enola."_

A statement that I accepted as a compliment from Mother. However, now, I wished for some sort of companionship.

I didn't want to be alone.

My wistful face was whisked away. I could not afford to form relationships. Already, everyone I had ever talked to was a liability.

Mrs. Tupper, the cashier at the coffee shop I frequented in the mornings, Jody, the boarders, Flo who was the all-around work girl that Mrs. Tupper hired. All of them could lead to my freedom's demise. _My_ demise.

Sighing once again, I realized that in the state I was about to step into, I would not be of any use at all. I set my shoulders straight, raised my chin and got out of bed with a jump.

It was time for the Alistairs to meet Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin.

Or rather, his wife.

* * *

I waved off Mrs. Tupper's loud protests of bed rest by shouting "FRESH AIR! FRESH AIR MRS. TUPPER!" directly into her hearing aids. Ah, the wonders of having a near deaf landlady.

After catching a cab and arriving at my offices. I entered the offices, making sure to lock the door behind me. Dr. Ragostin's personal offices were rather grandeur, as they used to be used for seances and 'spiritual readings'. A large and well-built desk was at the farthest point of the room, facing the door. A small fireplace was at the side, for heating. A lush rug laid over nice hardwood floors, big windows for light, and tall sturdy bookcases lined most of the walls.

The bookshelves were the only feature that remained from the original owner's design.

I walked with purpose towards the farthest bookcase. I pulled on a particular book and the shelves suddenly swung forward, revealing the secret room.

While I'm sure that the medium's accomplices hid in here, aiding the special effects, I would use this small space for something other than cheap tricks. Well, I mean, my tricks weren't cheap, in anyway.

I fitted a small vanity and lamp in there. My cosmetics and some basic disguises were hidden in here. I closed the door-there was another way out-and began to make Ivy Meshle disappear.

I needed a transformation.

Before I left my flat, I looked nothing like Ivy Meshle, I did not wear the skirts and blouses that she loved, nor did I have the red-gold hair that she wore. I went through the whole process of becoming Ivy Meshle just for the ride here, and now I will remove everything that is the fashionable secretary, and become someone completely new.

A mousy child wife.

Child wife, of course, is a term that is completely outdated. I wasn't _really _going to be a child wife. Well, not _completely._

After I had removed Ivy Meshle's jewelry, patterned skirt, white blouse, red scarf, red-gold wig and other beautiful but cheap knock-offs, I was left simply with Enola Holmes. A tall, bean-pole of a girl, with sallow skin, swampy eyes, and dreadfully thick and greasy hair.

I needed a bath desperately.

I removed the carefully and painstakingly painted make-up I had applied earlier, and settled down to create another disguise.

While it was meticulous, and somewhat irritating at time, there was a certain thrill in disguising oneself so thoroughly that one's own family members would not recognize. That was the goal I set every time I stepped outside dressed as someone else.

I will spare you the long and boring details of creating Mrs. Ragostin, Dr. Ragostin's mousy and timid younger wife and instead will jump right into my appearance.

I was wore no wig and had my head pulled back into a somewhat respectable ponytail. I wore white-washed jeans that flared slightly around my ankles and I paired that along with small flats that pinched my toes. My shirt was a white turtle neck, the bruises had yet to fade so I was stuck with them, and with a grey cardigan. Small and metallic glasses hung off my nose, not prescription of course, my eyesight was perfect. A few finishing touches were added-neutral make-up, a fake wedding ring I got off a pawn shop, a faded pleather bag.

I left the room, by a hidden lever and a small hallway that led to a secret door that led to the streets, as Mrs. Ragostin.

It was time to solve my first official case.

"_The game is on!"_

I paused, taking a moment to realize how silly that sounded when said out loud. I needed for something a bit better, a bit more original.

* * *

**THE END OF CHAPTER THE FOURTH**

**Maybe I should put chapter titles, what do you think? In the original books, she labeled them as chapter the -insert number-.  
**

**ATTENTION NEED HELP:**

**Great, now that I have about 40% of y'all's attention, let me continue. I want to come up with a catchphrases for Enola, but not quite sure what would fit. Sherlock has "The game is on!" I'd something similar to that, but with her own unique twist on it. Right now, I've just got "Adventure Awaits!" But that doesn't sound like Enola.**

**So, if you have any suggestions, please tell me!**

**That's it, onto the guest reviews!**

**Lily: I accept your apology, and thank you. I know that you did not mean it in that way. Thank you for reviewing. Also, thank you for that compliment, that was very kind of you. This chapter is dedicated to you.**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	5. Chapter the Fifth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes, sadly. I don't own Sherlock Holmes.**

**A/N: Introducing, Mrs. Alistair. Also, Cecily's name is spelled with one 'L'. I will now use the correct name. Also also, I made a playlist on 8tracks for this series. It's called 'The Holmes Girl' by Giraffe Panda 2.**

* * *

**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

**CHAPTER THE FIFTH**

The hidden door in Dr. Ragostin's inner offices was very useful. It opened off on the side of the building, appearing right in the shrubbery. I stepped from the prickly bushes, brushing off my disguise and hailed a cab immediately.

Dealing with the meticulous steps of creating a new identity had put me into a foul mood, and the fact that I had to deal with my own thick distasteful hair was not helping. Once I was safely into the cab and onto my destination, I brought out the small worn down pencil and sketchbook I carried with me in my bag. Taking my anger out on the pages, I quickly sketched a rather crude drawing of Mrs. Tupper leaning in close to hear something that someone was saying. Her old big wrinkles filled her face, her wispy white hair pulled back in a poor ponytail and below her chin was the top of the frilly apron she always wore.

Calming down, I slowed my quick strokes and began to draw a gentle, timid looking woman. She was modestly dressed and wore small, spinister-like glasses.

I sighed and stared down at myself; covered up by plastic inserts that changed my face structure and padding that increased my nonexistent curves. (However I wore only the minimal amount of padding for Mrs. Ragostin.)

I needed to remind myself on who I was being today.

When the urge struck me, I could sketch anyone: Ivy, Sherlock, Mother or anyone I knew except for Enola Holmes. My fingers could not seem to capture my true self on paper. Odd, but somewhat helpful, as not to leave clues.

I ripped the drawing of Mrs. Ragostin into pieces, making sure to shove them into my bag. I wasn't taking any chance that it could somehow end up in Sherlock's hands and then I would be minus one mask.

As the cab began to slow down, I got a better look at the house of the honorable Alistairs. It was rather large, and made with good taste. I could tell that this was a respectable family that I was visiting. Cecily's little 'adventures' with Mr. Finch must have been greatly embarrassing.

I paid the cabbie when we arrived at the front steps, and exited the cab gracefully, but demurely. I must stay in character. Indeed, I chanted to myself, plain, quiet, humble, plain quiet humble, as I walked up the steps and knocked on the intimidating doors.

A servant, one who plays the similar role of a butler no doubt, answered the door. His stoic and dull face, with a mouth stuck in a frown, stared at me.

I stared at him directly, but making sure to smile gently, and look nervous. "Hello, good afternoon. I'm-"

It was with a sudden, stomach dropping realization that I remembered I forget to give Mrs. Ragostin a first name. Bollocks.

"-Alice Ragostin. Um, my husband, Dr. Ragostin, is a Scientific Perditorian…" I could see my words made no impact on him. Still bothered at my earlier fumble, I continued, using a stronger approach. I shoved a small business card into the rather elderly man's hands. "My husband's card. I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Alistair, if I may?"

He took my card, never the less, but still remained in the doorway. "The lady of the house is not receiving visitors, today."

"Oh dear!" I feigned sympathy. "Then please, just send her my card and sympathies." I waited for a moment before adding, "I sent away the cab already. May I come in, out of the cold, just for a bit?"

He let me through, discreetly acting reluctant. "I'll send this up to Mrs. Alistair." With slow and methodical steps, he climbed the grand stairs and disappeared from my site. A young woman in a uniform came forward and asked, "May I take your coat, miss?" I declined respectfully. I hung onto my cardigan, because if I needed to make a hasty escape, I wanted to leave nothing behind.

I loitered around in the grand hall, studying the expensive and rich features of the household. I tried to imagine the conversation going on upstairs-hopefully Mrs. Alistair understood what perditorian meant.

" Ahem." The butler got my attention immediately. "Mrs. Alistair is not feeling well enough to travel downstairs today, but she wishes to invite you up to her boudoir."

It took me a moment to remember that the word boudoir meant a women's private sitting room. "Of course!" I said, cringing at how my voice sounded. Demure, Enola, demure!

As I followed the servant up the stairs and passed several doors, I heard children's laughter. A woman's voice was nagging them to behave and I smiled gently. I had read that Cecily had seven siblings.

I would gladly give her mine.

It took me a while to realize that I almost meant that.

When I entered the boudoir, I saw that Mrs. Alistair was quite young. She appeared almost childlike, despite begin the bearer of 8 children. Her back was to me, but when she turned, I could see that Cecily took after her mother greatly.

While beautiful and youthful, Mrs. Alistair's face was tear-stained and her eyes appeared red. Fortunately, Mrs. Alistair was one of the rare and few who could look pretty and cry at the same time.

When our eyes met, her dark brown eyes pierced through mine darkly; I remembered suddenly that I was supposed to be bashful, so I looked away, studying the floor. She had a good long look at me, while I glanced around at the room as if I was in a new place. It was simple, really, reminding me of Mother's bedroom, almost Japanese style furniture, white bamboo chairs and chiffon curtains. A sickening feeling made its way into my stomach when I thought of Mother.

Oh Mother, give me strength.

"That will be all." Mrs. Alistair dismissed her servants, including the maid who was standing at the back of room, patiently waiting for orders. Mrs. Alistair shrugged off her filmy jacket and turned directly at me, from where she had been staring out the window. "Please, Mrs. Ragostin, sit down."

I took a timid seat at the end of a love-seat. "My, um apologies for intruding on you in this, um, that is to say, unseemly time." Demure, plain, not a threat. "Without even a proper introduction, Mrs. Alistair, and at such difficult…" I trailed off, allowing my murmurings to fade away into nothing.

She jumped right into the topic. "Your husband sent you, Mrs. Ragostin?" Even when obviously grieving, the woman seemed to command attention and respect.

I lifted my lowered eyes to her beautiful ones. She was being direct, her square jaw set and her dark eyes narrowed.

"Um, yes." I faltered. "Dr. Ragostin felt that it might be, um, indelicate, for him to-to come here himself… So um, you know…" While playing such a timid and meek woman made me angry beyond imagination itself, it was somewhat useful. I allowed Mrs. Ragostin to fill in the blanks of my story, so that I did not have to lie further.

She stiffened for a moment before relenting. "My daughter is missing. I don't know where she is, and neither does my husband. Am I correct in assuming that your husband finds people who go missing?"

"Yes."

"He is offering his services, then?"

"Only if you wish to use them, Mrs. Alistair. But with no expectation of a reward, at all."

"Likely." She did not believe me. No doubt she thought it was a scam, a hustle of some sorts. I would not be surprised, I would too if I-

"I am desperate, Mrs. Ragostin." She spoke deliberately, trying not to break down. I could see it in her shaking hands, while the rest of her was still and calm.

"There has been no news, no news! The authorities seem utterly useless. My husband and I have tried going to another source, Sherlock Holmes-"My gut dropped. "But even he has turned his back! Surely your husband can do no worse." She sighed, almost losing her composure. "I am being a fool, no doubt, my husband refused to let me go to anyone else, I had to beg him to visit that detective. However, I could hardly be blamed if you came to me."

I shared a smile with her, before becoming grim, "Yes. I understand completely. M-husbands will have their way, and only their way."

I could not have said anything better. Mrs. Alistair lurched forwards and grabbed my hands. "Oh you're so right Mrs. Ragostin!" She continued passionately. "They try to run everything, but they are so wrong! I know, I know in my heart, that Cecily could not be anywhere that they say, but they won't listen! They insist on believing… Even my own husband…"

I agreed wholeheartedly, on the inside. I was reminded of my brothers, always searching for me, trying to take my freedom away. I couldn't ever show any weakness, I had to remain strong. Alone. My brothers terrified me, yet I almost yearned for their company, if not just to sit with them and talk. I realized that I was being too soft with them, and threw away the thoughts I was having.

I needed a way to guide this conversation without her noticing. I must have a look at Cecily's rooms. "My husband, while sometimes a bit… stubborn," I said carefully. "Was not unwise, I uh believe in sending me, because, you see…"

"Yes?" We had become co-conspirators, so close our knees were almost touching. Mrs. Alistair seemed almost desperate for a friend, someone she could trust. I knew that beautiful women like herself usually confined in women who looked like me-humble, bashful, plain, and certianly not a threat.

"I am not much older than Cecily... is it possible that… as a girl close to Cecily's age, and as a female... I might notice… something that the police could have overlooked."

"Oh, really?" My words had inspired Mrs. Alistair. "I've been longing to do something, Alice-is it alright if I call you that?-but what could be done?"

Just in time, I remembered to bite my lip and hesitate. "Well, Theodora…" I said, smiling gently and giving permission for her to call her by my name as well as seeking permission for me to call her by hers. She smiled back and I continued, "One must start somewhere, is it possible that I may have a look at Cecily's rooms?"

* * *

**THE END OF CHAPTER THE FOURTH**

**Sorry for the wait people! School got in the way, and I almost lost interest for a bit… As well, someone I admired greatly passed away two weeks ago… Monty Oum was a great man, an inspiration to all artists and creators out there. He will be missed greatly. Everything that I write from now on, is for him. Because he would want everyone, including you (yes you) to keep moving forward. With our lives, our dreams, our everything. Keep moving forward.**

**Reviews:**

**Guest: I will definitely include having her say "Oh brother" and rolling her eyes. It won't be her catchphrase, but it definitely will be in the story. Thank you for reviewing!**

**Lily: I actually loved your idea! "Ready or not here I come" or some variation of it,is wonderful! I love it, it's quite good. Thank you for reviewing!**

**Guest (2): Aww, I'm blushing, thank you! Thanks for reviewing!**

* * *

**Now with the catchphrases, I've gotten several ideas from people, and I would love to thank each one of you directly! I got some great ideas that I will definitely try using. Until then, read and review!**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	6. Chapter the Sixth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes, or the BBC Sherlock Show. An: At bottom.**

* * *

**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

_**CHAPTER THE SIXTH**_

Mrs. Alistair, or Theodora, as she allowed me to call her, showed me Cecily's room after tea and biscuits. After discussing little random facts, some small secrets about our significant others-I had to make up most of mine on the spot-finally, Theodora expressing her sorrow fantastically, we arrived at Cecily's personal bedroom.

Cecily, being the daughter of a very wealthy family, had a rather large set of rooms. There was a sitting room, where she could entertain her friends, and then a slightly smaller private bedroom, where she dressed, slept, and relaxed in.

I visited the sitting room first, studying the girlish and dainty fixings of the room. There were light purple stripes on the wall, with matching lavender whimsy curtains framing the windows. A small easel was in the corner, away from the window where the sunshine was streaming in, which was just_ odd_ for a dreary London day. Big sheets of paper full of watercolor pastels caught my eyes; along the walls, Cecily had hung her many paintings. All her paintings, while slightly blurred and somewhat weak, were of flowers, puppies, babies in strollers-everything very innocent.

I had nothing against innocence, I had no reason to quarrel with 'girly' things, but for some reason, the childish and whimsical setting of this room un-eased me.

There was one small bookshelf, which was filled with-

My face blanched and I slowly moved back, blushing slightly at some of the titles and covers of the books. It seemed Cecily, while surrounded by this innocent room, had quite the collection of romance novels.

Theodora was standing in the doorway, looking teary eyed and hopeful at me. I strode across the room towards the easel, taking in its position and the broken pastel crayons that were used to paint a quantity of the paintings in the room.

_Something seems off._

"May I see where she slept?" I asked, almost forgetting to add a 'please' in there afterwards. Theodora nodded, overcome with emotion it seemed, and pointed towards the door by the plush cushions that lined the back walls.

I entered Cecily's bedroom, where it was in a very similar theme to the sitting room. White furniture, pastel paintings, flower bouquets-it was almost driving me nuts. I wonder how she lived with it. I was then reminded that not every teenage girl was like me, a rebel and a freedom-striving lunatic.

"Theodora," I prodded gently, staring at the unmade twin-sized bed-it was evident that they still thought Cecily a child, even though she was the eldest of their children. "What was Cecily wearing when she was…"

She sniffed once before answering, "She was… in her pajamas, it seemed… A nightgown." She explained further.

"Thank you." I lied graciously.

_If she was in her nightgown, then she was taken, it was unplanned. But how did she leave-_

"The ladder?" I asked, rushing towards the window. I was referring to the ladder that they found outside her window, the morning they found her missing.

"They found it next morning, leaning in that window. It's ours, it was in the shed."

I turned towards Theodora, forgetting that she was there. Regaining my timid nature, I nodded. "Again, thank you…"

_So, assumingly, she was taken down the ladder. It's certainly not easy carrying someone down a ladder, so she went willingly. But she went willingly, why did she go in just a nightgown? Could it be that Cecily is a moron, of sorts? Why didn't she leave in more suitable clothes?_

**The letters.**

I turned towards Theodora, "I'm sorry to ask… But did the police take the letters?"

She nodded her head, "They took them, I asked if I could keep them, since-since-" It seemed I had made a mistake, as her eyes began to water again. I swooped in on her, gathering her in my arms like she was an old friend. After a minute or two, I managed to console her. Theodora excused herself, saying she couldn't handle all of the memories. After she left, I let out a breath of relief, I couldn't handle her crying.

I focused on the more important matter. A girl was missing in London.

I was reminded of another missing person's case. _Mother's._

_You'll do very well on your own, Enola._

I pinched myself, becoming disgusted with the way I was hung up on my personal matters on a case. "If only I had those letters!" My face, which had been stretched into a scowl, suddenly froze.

I said to no one, "When one is writing letters, then one writes them where?" I smirked and turned my gaze to the writing desk in the corner of the room. I carefully went through the drawers of the desk, and was surprised when I found, in the bottom drawer, a collection of journals. I grabbed the first one and opened it up; what I found shocked and puzzled me.

Dark writing, slanted to the left and-my eyes widened in realization. Cecily had written in these journals _backwards. _One could read what the words properly, if one held them up in a mirror. I did exactly that, using the full length mirror that was hanging on the door. The latest entry read:

_**I am so dreadfully bored. All anyone ever talks about is what they want for Christmas, all of the things they 'need'. Jewels, shoes, cigars! I can't scoff at them on the outside, but on the inside I am truly horrified. On the streets, and off the of the streets, there are the less fortunate, those who will be lucky just to have a warm meal during the cold bitter nights! My life is full of nothing, no meaning, other than as a trophy. It's without worthwhile purpose.**_

"Well Cecily, you are certainly not a moron." _These words were not of a girl in love, about to elope with her lover_! I read a few more entries, but there were many journals. I put the one I had read from back in the drawer and entered the sitting room again.

The easel, where her unfinished painting was, caught my attention again. Her broken pastels, baby blue, blush pink, pea green, all were smashed.

Remembering something rather important, I rushed back to her bedroom, scrambling to the desk. Along with her journals, were charcoal pencils, withered down to snubs. I touched one, and soot immediately rubbed off on my hands.

I did a once over both rooms. Not a splotch of black.

Now why would she have withered down charcoal pencils, and no charcoal drawings?

I found them on my third try. There were giant sheets of paper hidden behind the wardrobe and the dresser both. Carefully, so not to smudge them, I pulled them out one by one and laid them on the carpeted floor. What I saw took my breath away.

Cecily was certainly not what I expected.

The pure passion, no, the _temper _of the drawings astounded me. They were the exact opposite of the pretty pastel pictures that covered the room. Harsh strokes and deep black lines, un-softened, and without shading or fading. They were truly terrifyingly beautiful.

As well as the subjects of such technique.

_Homeless children, huddled around a trashcan._

_Drunken men slurring and stumbling through a lone streetlight._

_Rats nibbling on trash, with a dark and rather provocative woman in the background, standing at a door._

_Women fighting each other over blankets._

_A body frozen on the ground, eyes glazed over._

Cecily was not naive.

They were depicted with such honesty. Only a true born artist, one with a fiery connection to these life-like drawings could do this. An inspired artists looked upon these people with passion.

Like I have looked at them with passion.

I knew these people, these images.

Evidently so did Cecily.

_But, how the bloody h*ll did she?_

I touched one gently, my eyes lighting up and the corners of my mouth lifting in a true smile. This case was turning out to be much bigger than I thought at first. I was quite intrigued by the challenge. I wonder exactly what happened with the mystery of Cecily Alistair. I was determined to find out.

"The fun starts now."

* * *

**THE END OF CHAPTER THE SIXTH**

**You guys are the best! I am so blessed to have you! :D Also, I was informed by a reader this week that Nancy Springer, the author of the original Enola Holmes stories/books, is making more of them! Apparently, she already has the first new story written and sent to the publisher, and it might be out next year? All I know, is that means more stories for a modern Enola! God I'm so excited, and I'm freaking out! **

**You've guys sent lots of catchphrases, and I will definitely use most of them. I might not make them fixed catchphrases, but I really want to use them! I will try to fit them in as much as I can.**

**Guest Reviews:**

**Guest: Thank you for reviewing!**

**DurinGirl: Thank you! The most difficult part is the disguises, because I have to transfer vintage Enola, to modern Enola. **

**Seareader: You make me blush! I was searching for forever for a good Enola fanfiction, and finally decided that once I got my hands on all of the books, that I would write my own fanfiction of it. Thank you so much, your kind words mean a lot to me! Thanks for reviewing!**

**Lily: Thanks for reviewing! :) Yes, Jim Moriarty will be included in this. He's very interested in Enola Holmes. **

**Fun Fact: Today's catch phrase was brought to you by Hurricane. '97. "The fun starts now", was theirs!**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	7. Chapter the Seventh

**Disclaimer: I don't own Enola Holmes. Or Sherlock Holmes.**

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**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

_**CHAPTER THE SEVENTH**_

"Dr. Ragostin will contact you discreetly," I informed Theodora Alistair, "with his thoughts upon the case."

Thank goodness that "Dr. Ragostin" will respond with his thoughts, because mine had started to resemble a tangled ball of yarn. All different threads, twirling, and spiraling. I could only grab onto one, which kept repeating, _"Cecily didn't elope!"_

Her journals, her rooms-two completely, utterly different sides of a coin. It was very confusing and intriguing. I wondered what type of person she had to be, in order to play such an innocent flower on the outside, while hoarding a rebellious, feministic, mischievous young woman on the inside. I was eager to meet the girl who drew those pictures, to see if we shared the same mindset.

I could not help but feel as though she left for some other reason other than love. It must have something to do with the odd diaries and the rather disturbing charcoal drawings.

Since Theodora had the thought that Cecily was still a child, I did not wish to impose on her the harsh truth. Cecily was no child.

I asked her if I could take the diaries with me, however, as I wished to delve deeper into Cecily's mindset. Theodora agreed, after some persuading, and promising that only my eyes would grace the pages, since she felt uncomfortable with Dr. Ragostin reading them himself.

I nearly rolled my eyes at her backwards thinking. So what if a grown man read your young daughter's journals? If it meant finding her, wouldn't you want to risk everything? Isn't that what a mother does, love her children, and protects them at all costs?

_Yes, Enola, because your mother did exactly that._

I harshly reminded myself that my mother did leave me the means to protect myself, and to make a life for myself.

As I was seen out, I saw a glimpse of the playroom in which Cecily's many younger siblings resided in. They all shared the same looks as Cecily and their mother-generous mouths, and bright, intelligent eyes.

Just in time, I asked for a copy of a photo of Cecily, as a reference. I was handed her school picture. A smiling girl, my age, stared back up at me, her big smile frozen on the page. Also, I managed to snag the name and address of the shop where Alexander Finch, Cecily's supposed "lover" worked at. All in case "Dr. Ragostin" wished to question him.

As I was leaving, Theodora hugged me with surprising strength. I hugged her back with much less feeling, and was horrified when I got a tingling in the back of my throat. Theodora obviously loved all of her children, very much. I almost wished my mother would love me that much. Now it seemed that I would never find out.

I nearly slapped myself at my thoughts. I needed to regain control of myself; I had a job to do. Not Dr. Ragostin, _me. _

Enola Holmes, the World's One and Only Scientific Perditorian.

And it was Enola Holmes, who lied to poor Theodora about, well, mostly everything.

Therefore, I felt wretched and shameful as I rode back in the cab back to the boarding residence. My thoughts, no matter how much I tried to grab them and pull them back into a line, swirled about: Dr. Ragostin this, Dr. Ragostin that; I was nothing but a girl of fifteen-what could I do? Until I turned of legal age, I was on the run, running, running and _yes, more running._

All because I didn't want to go to boarding school. For a moment, _just a second,_ I thought to myself, _is it worth it?_

I slipped back into the secret room by another secret door. There, I donned on Ivy Meshle again, becoming the somewhat clumsy, but capable Ivy Meshle, assistant to Dr. Leslie T. Ragostin.

My subdued mind lasted throughout the entire afternoon, up until I left for home. _Home. Ferndall Hall. _

I needed to get a hold of myself.

After eating a small meal, just enough to keep my strength up, I settled down by the fire, holding Cecily's journals and a small hand mirror. Making sure I was comfortable, I began to read the personal musings of Cecily Alistair, a girl with two very different faces.

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I found the content of Cecily's diaries rather odd. There were no regular journal entries about shopping, outings with friends, gossip, etc. Instead, it was filled with troubled musings.

… _**There has been a great deal of talk about recent thievery. Small shops have been robbed, all of them located at the edges of the East End. Father is worried what the thieves would do next, claiming that they were no good-doers, utter trash, and lower than the dirt beneath his finely polished shoes. **_

_**I wonder if that is all that they are. Are they fathers? Brothers or sons? Everyone has a family. Are they stealing simply because of the adrenaline rush? Or are they struggling to put bread on their family's table? There must be more…**_

… _**Survival of the fittest, quoted from Darwin, states that those who are unable to support themselves should be let alone as Nature takes its course, eliminating them. How are we better than them? Because we have more money, because we are of a "higher breed", or "class"? I can quote Shakespeare; play Chopin on the piano blindfolded-yet I do not know how to climb a tree, how to bargain for a better price at markets, or how to ride a bike. But speaking of the latter, I have…**_

… _**Father continues to speak down about them. It infuriates me. It takes much self-control and patience to sit there, perfectly calm with my hands in my lap and my head bowed.**_

I read similar entries and more. After finishing up my reading, I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling frustrated even more. While my mind sympathized with Cecily's thoughts, I could not make any practical use of it. I did not have any clues.

I decided to get some rest, seeing as the sun had already gone down. Sleep, I told myself, sleep and perhaps the yarn will unravel.

I ignored the implication that I was afraid to go out again, into the dark streets, back where I was almost strangled. My fingers went up to my throat, remembering the horrific feeling of the rope tightening on my neck.

In the morning, I awoke, feeling well-rested. Indeed, it seemed that my adequate amount of sleep allowed my brain to relax and comb through the tangled ideas.

I had seen the poor of London, the homeless. I had felt impelled to help them. I _did _help them.

Cecily had seen them too; her charcoal paintings evidence of that. It must have happened either before or after her questioning journal entries (or she simply did not write about the encounters, a possibility I did think of). Somehow, Cecily Alistair wandered around East End, and I must find out how.

Had she felt impelled to help them as well?

Did she leave her home of her own free will?

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After arriving to "work" in my Ivy Meshle attire, I grabbed the newspaper of the day. I scanned it for any communications from Mum. I found none and threw it in the fire.

I settled down in my chair and brought out my sketch book. My hand drew of its own account, sketching dark strokes. I drew Cecily, her big smile and bright eyes. I drew her profile, with her hair up. I drew her looking to the side with a surprised expression. I continued it draw her face, different angles, expressions, and hairstyles.

I was becoming so relaxed just from sketching, that I almost failed to notice Jody entering the room. The young boy entered the room with the water pitcher, his intent on watering the small plants I had littered about the room. He walked around the desk to water the fern in the right back corner but paused on his way, staring at my hands.

"I know 'er." I nearly jumped out of my seat when Jody spoke. I glanced at the boy. _Ridiculous._ There's no possible way that he would know Cecily Alistair; they lived in almost completely different worlds. Still, I asked him, "What's her name?"

He looked at me like was crazy, "I don't know 'er like _that._ Ma'am." He added as an afterthought. "I've just seen 'er on the streets, is all. Stand 'in on a corner, I think."

"Where?" I demanded. If he had truly seen her, Cecily-

"I don't remember."

I swiveled in my chair to face him. The boy was wearing a worn blue shirt and clutching the water pitcher close to his chest like I had threatened to take it from him instead of having asked him the _very simple question. _I took a deep breath inwardly because it would do no good to get worked up over this and scare Jody even more. "What was she doing, then? Shopping?"

My tone must still have been harsh, as he visibly flinched and started getting a faraway look in his eyes. "No, I don't think so…"

I nearly rolled my eyes.

Jody continued, his eyes still glazed over. "She 'ad somethin' in a basket…"

"What? Flowers?" I replied sarcastically, unable to help myself. "Was she selling flowers?" Not unheard of, there are markets all around London, and sometimes people do sell things on the street, (flowers, though, were not in season). However, it would be strange for someone born in her position to be selling flowers.

Jody shook his head, "No, she 'ad somethin' else… Newspapers?"

"You saw this girl _selling newspapers_?" I asked, my voice incredulous.

Jody looked downtrodden at my voice. I felt a little bad, but my mind made excuses for my behavior. I was at my wit's end with Cecily's case and Jody was being no help. Looking at his face, I realized that I should've just kept my mouth shut. I would not get anything else out of this scared boy.

I sighed and dismissed him, "That's all, Jody."

He scuttled to finish up watering the plants and then hurried out, not even giving me a 'Goodbye ma'am'.

I scowled down at my drawings of Cecily and threw them into the fire. I watched them burn and slowly my face began to relax. Jody just saw another pretty girl on the streets, not Cecily Alistair.

~!~

Sipping my tea and feeling more relaxed than I had in days, I mused over Cecily's case even more. It was obvious, for reasons stated before, that Cecily did not elope. If she had, she wouldn't have left in her pajamas, instead opting for the most appealing outfit she had for the romantic adventure.

And if her escapade involved the poorer neighborhoods-well, the same reason applied. She would hardly go out in just her pajamas. Unless she had changed into a different apparel more appropriate and then hidden her pajamas to-

To what? Make it appear as if she was forcibly removed? Carried down a ladder? That was preposterous, and very difficult to do so.

Was the ladder beneath her window a blind? Had anyone assisted her with her escape?

There were too many questions and too few answers.

An idea popped into my mind and I immediately began to gather my things. I would need a taxi.

After hailing a cab and arriving at my destination, I began to walk down the streets towards the shop I had in mind. The shop that belonged to the father of Alexander Finch. Alexander Finch being the person who was indicated to be Cecily Alistair's secret lover.

As I walked down the streets I heard a few men call out to me. I ignored them, not sparing them a glance as I continued on my way. I heard one shop worker call out to me, "How you doing sweetheart? Come in 'n' chat for a bit."

I soon approached Ebenezer Finch &amp; Son Emporium. The store was lined with big windows filled with dazzling merchandise and bright fabrics. It was the most eye-catching of all the stores on the block. When I walked in, I noticed there was a prominent picture of Ebenezer &amp; Son hung to the right. I studied this picture, focusing not on Ebenezer, but on Son. Alexander Finch, the alleged seducer of Cecily Alistair.

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**A/N: Alright, alright, I know… I'm a terrible, terrible person! It was so not cool for me to drop this story for 3 months, especially since how many of you have followed, or favorited, or reviewed this story. I apologize. School was hectic and I just didn't have the time. However, school has ended and now I'm free! So I will write a lot more. Hopefully. Probably.**

**Anyway, on to guest reviews:**

**Lily: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you liked Cecily's paintings.**

**Guest: Thanks for your review! Don't worry, I will continue this story.**

**That's all, please review! With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


	8. Chapter the Eighth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Enola Holmes.**

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**ENOLA HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE LEFT-HANDED LIAR**

_**-CHAPTER THE EIGHTH-**_

Alexander Finch look very nondescript in the photograph. I was sure I had not seen him before, since I had never come to this side of town before and I had never visited London before, but I felt as if I had seen his face previously.

Shaking the odd feeling in my stomach I wandered the store, looking for him. I passed by an employee area, where above in an alcove I could see a large office. My ears perked up when I heard the arguing. I immediately slowed down my footsteps, showing interest in the merchandise nearby.

The conversation went like this:

"... some chaotic colors, one would expect from a bleeding mentalist!" An older and manly voice yelled. "Change them straight away!"

"Yes sir." A tactful and low voice replied.

The door from the office opened and out walked the very man I had come to see. Alexander Finch.

I caught a glimpse at a steaming Ebenezer Finch, his father. The father's face was beet red from arguing. Alexander's face, however, was like a stone wall. Completely calm and stoic.

"Don't you dare think of leaving, you hear me?!" Ebenezer called out to his son.

Without turning around, he replied, " Yes sir." Alexander walked down the metal stairs quickly, heading towards the main part of the store.

I hurried to catch up with him, and when I did so, I said, a little breathlessly, "Excuse me, Mr. Finch…"

"May I help you, miss?" He asked, not unpleasantly. He turned around, letting me get a good look at Alexander Finch. He was not dressed dully, as most of the employees working at the store. He wore a bright blue scarf and a grey blazer. His slacks were also grey and his shoes were polished impeccably. I was suddenly reminded of what I was wearing, and how we had similarities. I wore bright blue flats, the same color as his scarf, darker grey slacks paired with a comfortable jacket the same color. I was dressed quite fetchingly, I might. I wondered briefly, if Alexander was the seducer, would he might be interested in me?

I scoffed internally. TO compare myself to Cecily Alistair was to compare a drunken giraffe to a graceful gazelle. I shoved those thoughts aside and focused on the case at hand. "I find myself a little lost and unsure, there's so many fascinating things. I was wondering, if you could help me…" I trailed off and murmured to him, "Mrs. Theodora Alistair sent me." I can't deny that my heart did beat faster when I finished my whisper. How would he react?

I was disappointed, in a way. Alexander Finch only reacted by raising his eyebrows briefly in surprise. He recovered quickly and fell into my charade. "If you'll just walk this way, miss, I'll be pleased to assist you."

He led me to towards a different side of the store, towards the women's clothing section. Our destination ended at a counter where a young willowy girl was stationed at. To her, Alexander ordered, "Disappear."

She did, without a smile or frown.

I glanced at Alexander, his tone had been low and neutral. Did he intimidate all of the clerks, or was this her usual manner with him? After all, the girl was young and doe-eyed, and he was the boss's son.

Alexander slipped behind the counter, offering me a neutral smile. "Now, miss, here we have the latest in ladies' footwear." He brought up a faux ivory leather boot, with laces up to mid-calf."

It might have looked suspicious if we were just conversing, plus, I had no desire to attract the attention of the two policemen I had noticed walking into the store.

"Mrs. Alistair is taking matters into her own hands, you could say," I explained, "she has hired, outside help… from a private detective." I could have said Scientific Perditorian, but that would have required further explanation, and I had no idea how long I would have with Alexander."

"Quite so. Something for spring, you said?" Alexander pulled out a white open toed shoe with a ridiculous heel.

I pretended to admire said footwear while continuing, "The police have been no help."

"I'd say, all they do is sit outside and watch me, but my father is so vexed that he won't even let me step foot out the front door."

"Do you live at home with your parents, then?"

"No, I stay with some of the other workers, in a flat next door."

I glanced to my sides, and continued my questions when I noticed no eavesdroppers, "Why is your father so angry with you?"

"Because I forget my place, as he says." Alexander scowled briefly. His eyes lit up and met mine, "How rude of me, may I offer you a seat, miss?" He gestured to a wooden seat that was next to the counter.

"No, no thank you I'm fine." I replied, a little flustered. I was beginning to see what Cecily Alistair saw in this young man. Beyond the almost bland exterior was an intelligent mind, and some other, less definable qualities.

Indeed, for a moment I felt quite uncomfortable as he leant forward and studied me through his small framed glasses. I was about to turn away when his face almost split into a smile; realization lit up in his eyes and with a smirk-like expression he asked, "I believe we have met before. May I ask, what is your name?"

"Certainly, you may ask." I answered, controlling my tone as best as I could.

A tense moment came and passed before he realized that I was not going to give up my name willingly, or at all. Alexander surprised me by dropping the subject all together. He grabbed another show from behind the counter. "I prefer the boot with laces, you see. You get a tighter… _mold,_ to the limb." His tone, again, was completely neutral, and only had a hint of something that couldn't identify. He grabbed the bootlaces strands and pulled, tight, creating a tiny waist where the ankle would have gone.

I studied this absentmindedly. "You said your father thinks you don't know your place, what does that mean?"

"It means that just because one is born in a palace, or in a barn, whether one is born with money or hasn't a penny to their name, whether ones' blood is _impure_ or not, doesn't matter to me." I caught Alexander's hands tensing the slightest bit. "What does it matter, one's age, race, gender? I'll befriend anyone, help anyone-"

I saw his hands tense again when the word help came out of his mouth. "Cecily Alistair needed help, did she?"

Alexander's eyes met mine. Coolly he replied, "Flat tire on her bicycle. I was riding by on mine and stopped to patch it. She had no clue on how to take care of one, you see. We got to chatting-"

"Alexander!" The voice of Ebenezer Finch was loud and suddenly very near.

Quickly Alexander switched the conversation, "If you want to put in a special order, or put these in hold, then we'll need-"

"Alexander! Why-" Mr. Finch Sr. stopped and stared at us, like we were an unknown object in his shop. "You're helping a customer… Fine then."

After his father departed without another to word, (Ebenezer did not even acknowledge me) Alexander continued, "Cecily was surprising, to say the least. She was… loud. Curious. Some would even say, rebellious."

I grinned on the inside. I was beginning to grow fond of Cecily, despite never knowing the girl.

"She thought our meeting was fate; she asked me to show her everything. Museums, the docks, the-" He paused for half a second before continuing, "the slums. She asked me to show her the dirtiest streets and roughest of blocks."

"Oh!"

Alexander met my eyes, "What?"

I shook my head, "Nothing, sorry." I just realized how Cecily drew her charcoal sketches. She saw these things, just as I saw them. "You took her to St. Giles, and the fish market at Billingsgate."

A small frown appeared between Alexander's eyebrows. "Yes, how did you know that?" He paused for a beat before continuing, "She would arrange to go out with friends and then meet me afterwards. I would escort her around town, showing her the sights, answering her questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"Endless ones," He answered, drumming his fingers along the counter to some unknown rhythm. "Why were there so many pawnshops. How expensive are cabbies. Why is one painting worth more than the one next to it. Why were there children running around without parents."

"She wanted this knowledge for something, why?"

Alexander's tone became a little less pleasant. "To make a scapegoat out of me."

I was surprised at his answer. "What do you mean?"

He mimicked me, "Could it not be plainer? She has gone off somewhere, and here I am, taking all of the blame."

Quietly I told him. "Perhaps she didn't realize that you would take the blame."

In the same volume, he asked, "Why the ladder then?"

So that her family would think that the young naive girl who painted the sugary pastel paintings was not harboring a secretive, rebellious side, and was just a silly young thing that went off with a seductive man.

I asked Alexander Finch one last question. "She didn't confide in you at all? You haven't any idea here she has gone?"

"I have no idea where she could have gone." He answered. The young man started to rearrange the display of shoes that were behind the counter. He turned, showing me his profile, and added, "I think that Cecily Alistair walked right out her front door and put that ladder there herself."

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**IT'S BEING UPDATED SO SOON. YAY. Also, sorry that it's short. I hope that the next chapter will be longer.  
**

**I promised that I would update better, and I have! The next chapter might take some time, because right now I have to focus on the timeline of the Sherlock show. I'm in season 1 episode 3. However, Sherlock will make an appearance not next chapter, but the chapter after that, so chapter tenth, he'll make an appearance. I think.**

**Reviews:**

**RedtailHawk19: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you liked this chapter. Enola is pretty intense at times, really though, she just doesn't like stupid people, and Jody wasn't being very intelligent at the time. I always liked that part in the book because Enola actually got really upset and impatient.**

**Black Night15: Thank you for reviewing! Yeah, I'm going to try and work on updating better. At least with this story.**

**VampireHuntress72095: Thank you for reviewing! I'm so glad that you felt that way, and that you got that, because that's really an under thought of the books that I was trying to portray. I actually remember not liking Cecily at all the first time I read the books, but now I like her more. She will meet Moriarty, she will. I just, I'm unsure on how to put that in right now, but they will meet! Also, I'm curious to that as well, I want to figure out how they will interact.**

**Anyway, please, please review!**

**With that out of the way, it's time to say-**

**-GP2 OUT!**


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